


Off the Beaten Path

by OwlosaurusRex



Series: Tired Boys [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And no one dies, Blind! Soldier 76, Canon-Typical Violence, I'll update tags as I go, I'm not about that sad life, M/M, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Suggested suicidal thoughts, because I don't care about "official" Overwatch lore to be honest, don't worry it does get shippy eventually, or mostly blind, pre-Moira release
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 21:23:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11021868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlosaurusRex/pseuds/OwlosaurusRex
Summary: A chance encounter with the fabled Soldier 76 leaves Reaper questioning his understanding of the man behind the Soldier. Revenge has been his primary objective ever since he’d come to accept his new shape and role as the Reaper, yet everything changes once he gets a better look at his adversary. It becomes apparent that Jack Morrison is no longer the man he once was and as Reaper struggles to understand the condition of their rivalry he also must fight for control of himself. Reaper knows what he wants, but does Gabriel?We follow the boys as they struggle to understand themselves and what they want from their lives. This is written under the headcannon that 'Reaper' sees himself as a separate entity from 'Gabriel.'





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Edit as of 7/25/18: Hey there! I just wanted to clarify that I planned this fic and wrote the first couple of chapters before the release of Moira as a character and before we knew much of anything about Reaper's condition or the history behind when he got his "Reaper abilities" so I'm going to be treating this as an au rather than trying to cobble in Overwatch's wonky lore. I originally planned on having his condition be a direct result of Talon interference and experimentation AFTER the fall of Overwatch so I'm going to keep it that way~ Just wanted to let everyone know. Thanks!
> 
> This fic is based off of and greatly inspired by my friend Giselle's comic: https://jiseruu.tumblr.com/post/157522113423/hmm-first-part-of-a-idea-i-had-in-my-head-lets
> 
> And a special thanks to her for being so supportive and bouncing ideas around all of the time! I owe her so much for helping me write and stay inspired. Also her art is wonderful and you should definitely check it out~
> 
> The first chapter if this fic was beta-d by the ever kind and helpful Kawaiibooker who has also been very supportive and encouraging and I owe her a lot for her kindness.

Dorado was a familiar place, the city lights and sound of people sparking memories that fizzled and popped in the back of Reaper’s skull. Like firecrackers. Like gunfire. He’d walked these streets before in another life with far nobler intentions and he walked them now with a target in sight tucked away from the main city streets. The newly-reformed Overwatch had been poking around the city for some time; wrestling with local gangs and sticking their noses where they didn’t belong to the extent that Reaper was not the least surprised to find the old Soldier here. To find him _alone,_ however _,_ was unexpected.

He’d been watching since the ragtag group of heros arrived and he knew that Jack noticed, had seen the man tense or fidget under his stare regardless of the distance between them. The old Strike-Commander seemed as keen as ever in that regard; always on alert, always aware of his surroundings, and yet as Reaper approached him in the narrow backstreet of the city, the man made no move to grab for his gun propped against the wall or even to face him completely. There was tension in Jack’s shoulders and an air of apprehension as he stared out at the city below, hesitating to acknowledge Reaper’s presence. Reaper’s advance was silent and gradual, taking stock of the discarded visor near Jack’s feet and the thin clouds of smoke that dissolved in the balmy air when he sighed. The smell of cigarettes was oddly abrasive. Unnatural. Almost everything about the situation was unnatural and out of character to the extent that Reaper couldn’t help his curiosity.

In the time since the recall, Reaper had seen enough of the old Soldier to _know_ him--to know his tricks and how he thought--yet expressions of _feeling_ were beyond him. There was no room for any of that on the battlefield, but this was no battlefield and Jack stood not as a soldier but as a man; tired, and aching.

He seemed...resigned.

“I thought you quit.”

The sound of Reaper’s voice, harsh and grating, earned a tilt of Jack’s head--a sideways glance and a moment of hesitation. Jack had a decision to make and when he slowly looked back out over the city, his rifle left untouched, it became clear that he had chosen the simpler route.

“Figured I might not have another chance, so...why not?” Jack said and Reaper could feel the exhaustion in his voice, weighing down his words clogged with smoke. He coughed and leaned further on the wall separating him from a sheer drop down to the streets below, his free hand rubbing at his face. Reaper inched closer, watching the steady pale glow of life throbbing at Jack’s center. It was surprisingly close, beckoning yet receding from him. Jack was not ready for death despite what he might think and despite Reaper’s intentions.

“Think about it. A boy scout like you really should set a better example,” Reaper said, winning a scoff from Jack as he straightened but still refused to look at him.

“An example...I’m no role-model. I’m just a soldier, now.”

It was Reaper’s turn to scoff and drift closer still, his feet ghosting over the pavement until he loomed over Jack’s shoulder.  
“A soldier? You were never _just_ a soldier, _Jack_ .” Reaper hissed the name, feeling hatred bubble and burn inside of him; a black tar churning to life with the close proximity. “No...you were always something _special_ . The ‘golden boy,’ their chosen one--”  
“What do you want?”

“You know what I want,” Reaper said, the disgust in his voice nearly palpable; thick and malicious in a way that had Jack turning to face him, to fend him off, but it was too late.

Reaper caught him mid-turn, his fist connecting with Jack’s face hard enough to send the man reeling. The cigarette was tossed from his lips as blood gushed from his nose and Jack stumbled against the wall; out of reach. He recovered quickly but not as quickly as he _should_ have--not as quickly as he used to--and Reaper took advantage of the opportunity.

“What’s the matter, _soldier_ ?” Reaper reached for him; clawed fingers gripping the front of Jack’s coat and tearing at the aged leather as he heaved him up and threw him out into the street. Jack landed hard, his grunt one of breathlessness that left him rolling on the pavement coughing and struggling to draw air in past his bloodied lips. It was an interesting sight; satisfying yet somehow not as thrilling as Reaper had expected. He wanted Jack to struggle, to _suffer_ , but watching him roll onto his knees, blood dripping steadily from his face, felt...lackluster. It wasn’t enough.

“You’re slowing down a little,” Reaper said as he turned his attention to the rifle propped against the wall. It was familiar--one he’d seen many times over in his past life, and one that left much to be desired.  
“Standard issue...an old model. Basic and outdated, just like you.” He picked it up and turned the gun over in his hands, looking out to see Jack staring at him. “Useless.” Reaper gripped either side of the rifle and brought it down over his knee with a sharp crack and splintering of plastic and metal--nearly breaking the gun in half. Jack looked on with a grimace as the gun was tossed over the wall to clatter on the street below.

“You’re not much without your toys,” Reaper said as he looked down at the mask near his feet and nudged it with his boot.

“You’re one to talk,” Jack spat, his voice sounding hoarse and far rougher than Reaper remembered. He rose to his feet slowly, gripping at his side, and there was a moment, again, where a decision had to be made. Jack’s sidearm was still at his hip and he should have grabbed it--looked as though he might--but he hesitated.

The moment was there and gone; a breath of a pause during which Jack’s conflictions became clear. Reaper lunged at him, his own shotguns forgotten in favor of the raw satisfaction of beating the old soldier with his hands alone. To crush the revered Jack Morrison and rip the life from him with his own two hands was all Reaper could ever want. It was what he needed. What he _had_ to do.

Blood spattered against the pavement and the grungy walls of the surrounding buildings as Reaper’s fist found Jack’s face again, but this time Jack was ready for him. He might be getting old, might be hesitant to pull a weapon that could actually end this fight, but Jack was far from helpless. He took the blow in stride, blocked Reaper’s next swing with his arm, and pushed forward suddenly—throwing his weight against Reaper’s chest. If he was trying to knock Reaper off balance he didn’t succeed but the close proximity offered new opportunities.

Reaper coughed out a laugh as Jack landed a sharp jab in his gut, then another in quick succession. It felt oddly familiar; the pain, the faint taste of blood, and the exchanging of blows—they were sparring like they used to, only now the stakes were far higher than simple bragging rights. The thought sent a shock through Reaper’s skull, scrambling his thoughts into a froth that swallowed the memories whole and left confused rage in its wake. Reaper gripped at Jack’s shoulders with a renewed passion, his body burning with his fury and the added ache in his head, and shoved him away with enough force to make them both stumble.

Their separation was momentary, barely long enough for Reaper to catch his breath before Jack was on him again. The soldier stuck close, clung to him in a way that made it difficult to land blows beyond an elbow to the ribs or a shallow punch at his chest--a more defensive style than Reaper had expected and decidedly _annoying_. Reaper scowled beneath his mask, shuffling with each shift of their weight and taking the hits as they came until he could get Jack where he wanted him. It took some maneuvering and almost more patience than Reaper possessed but ultimately their little dance paid off. Jack’s feet shifted when Reaper made to pull away, forcing the soldier to take a step forward and leaving a welcome opening that Reaper was more than eager to take advantage of. He kicked out, sweeping Jack’s foot out from under him, and shoved him down to twist free of his grasp. With another swift kick to the chest, Jack fell back once more to bleed on the pavement. He moved as if to stand but Reaper stopped him with a heavy boot.

Jack gasped for breath, coughing on blood that drained from his nose and gripped at Reaper’s boot holding him down. Reaper could still taste blood in the back of his throat and the inescapable rage that sent sharp pains through his skull, obscuring any other thoughts or memories that might have wiggled to the surface. He didn't have time for _Gabriel_ \--this wasn't about feelings and old friendships, this was about revenge.

Reaper pressed down harder on Jack’s chest until the man really started to wheeze, savoring the pain on his face and the glimpse of could-be helplessness. He knew better than to assume Jack was finished but that only fueled his desire to end their game there and then.

“Look at you, you’re pathetic,” Reaper hissed and managed to grin beneath his mask at the prospect of getting what he’d been wanting all along. “We’re going to end this, Jack. Right here, right now.”

Jack squinted up at him, his bloodied teeth grinding in a visible sneer though he made no further move to struggle.

“It doesn't...have to be this way.”

Reaper laughed outright and reached down with clawed hands to grab the front of Jack’s coat and haul him up; letting his feet kick and thrash for solid ground.

“You can’t talk yourself out of this one,” Reaper said and adjusted his grip, his fingers finding their way around Jack’s throat. “There’s no one here to save you.”

Jack started to thrash harder, the reality of the situation eliciting a new struggle on his part though Reaper found it was still lacking a decisive edge.

“Gabe, listen--”

“ _Listen_?” Reaper nearly snarled and gave Jack a shake. “Like you _‘_ listened _’_ to me? No, Jack! No more talking. You’re going to die here. I’m going to wring the life right out of you,” Reaper said through gritted teeth. His grip tightened and Jack choked, hands pulling at his arm. “You’re right, though, it didn't have to be this way. You could have avoided this-- _you_ could have listened, but you didn't. You pushed me aside and when all was said and done, you _left_ _me_ there to _rot_.”

Jack’s struggles grew more frantic, his eyes growing wide and arms starting to flail with a desperation born of instinct. Jack’s movements were quick and jerky, his arm connecting with Reaper’s mask hard enough that it cut into already scarred, gray flesh and caught Reaper off guard. As muted as Jack’s panic was, there was enough adrenaline, enough urgent force, behind the swinging of his arms to knock the mask from Reaper’s face. It was unexpected and unwanted but somehow fitting. Jack should see what he had caused before he died.

Reaper scowled; the dim, inescapable glow of the city around them giving his already ghastly features a more sickly hue as he tilted his head up to meet Jack’s stare. The old soldier’s struggles had ebbed, replaced by a death grip on his arm while Jack gaped at him with watering eyes. Reaper loosened his grip just enough for Jack to suck in a sharp breath.

“So...it’s come to this,” Reaper said. “Take a good look, Jack. _You_ did this to me.”

Reaper pulled Jack closer until he could feel the stuttering heat of his breath.

“G...abe--”

Reaper gave him another shake when Jack closed his eyes.

“No! You don’t get to ignore this. Look at me! Look at what you did.”

Jack’s eyes fluttered open, reddened and weary, and he squinted at him; his face twisting into a look of guilt and anguish.

“Gabe...I…” Jack coughed and wheezed, his hands tightening further on Reaper’s arm as he struggled to ease the pressure on his throat.

“I wish...I wish I could.”

“What?” Reaper snapped.

Jack didn’t reply but when Reaper met his stare again he could _see_ his answer.

His eyes had always been blue, the sort of bright, perfect shade that people idolized yet looking at them now, Reaper could see a paleness he hadn't noticed before. As close as they were, with Reaper pulling him even closer, it was strikingly _obvious_ that something was wrong. Jack stared at him without actually focusing; his eyes narrowed, struggling to find something to cling to beyond the dull haze clouding his sight. He was...blind?

The realization struck him like a brick: hard and fast--damaging whatever sense of satisfaction his victory had to offer. Blind? It made sense the more Reaper thought about it. Jack Morrison had always been a good shot; so much so that such an advanced visual aid shouldn’t be necessary unless there was something _wrong_. The visor, the hesitancy during their fight, Jack’s need to stick close--to be able to feel Reaper’s movements--how had he not noticed sooner?

There was no denying that Reaper wasn’t above fighting dirty and certainly wouldn’t think twice in taking advantage of an enemy’s weaknesses but this realization went beyond recognizing a physical handicap--this changed everything.

“Do it.”  
Reaper took in a deep breath at the sound of Jack’s voice. It was raw and brittle; rattling in Reaper’s skull and sending his thoughts dancing.

“You want me to,” Reaper said. It wasn’t a question and Jack’s grimace reflected enough guilt and regret to speak volumes as to _why_ this was happening. Reaper wanted to do it, he _needed_ to do it--revenge was all he had now and he had it in his grasp waiting for one final squeeze to end this once and for all. But it felt cheap, tasted sour to think of his victory won through an unexpected advantage--because Jack _wanted_ it.

Reaper slowly lowered Jack until his feet touched the ground but didn’t let him go. Looking at his pale eyes, his bloodied face, Reaper wondered who this man was--this Soldier 76. A blind man, a tired man, and one who welcomed death too easily. Reaper couldn't give Jack the satisfaction of killing him--not yet.

 _This changed everything_.

This was a night of decisions, and Reaper didn’t share his enemy’s hesitancy. When his grip tightened again, fingers pressing hard against already bruising skin, it was with conviction; squeezing closer and closer to the thin line between incapacitation and lethality until Jack grew limp in his grasp. It happened in the blink of an eye--the expanse of a heartbeat--with a barren feeling of resignation rather than the thrill and excitement Reaper deserved. Jack’s choking, his wide eyes full of acceptance and expectation, only made things worse. Mercy was not Reaper’s strong suit.

Jack’s unconscious body slumped to the ground unceremoniously when Reaper released him and the sight of him lying there--still, hardly breathing--meant nothing. An empty victory. Reaper sighed heavily with thick plumes of smoke and turned away to retrieve his mask. He found it with minimal effort, the already damaged and stained surface sporting new scrapes but otherwise intact. It was heavy; a mask made to contain and conceal and something entirely different than the bright red of Jack’s visor.

Reaper hesitated in returning the mask to its rightful place, glancing around instead until he found the visor in question still sitting where they left it. There was a faint glow to the red lens as Reaper approached it and he could hear the crackle of voices from the communication system within. It was interesting how different they felt in his hands: Jack’s a complex piece of equipment meant to aid and enhance, and Reaper’s a restraint worn to keep everything from spilling out. There was only one thing in common between the two: to remove their masks was to leave them both bare and vulnerable; to expose them for what they truly were.

Reaper narrowed his eyes as he returned his mask to his face and continued to study Jack’s visor. He could no longer say that he knew Jack Morrison nor could he be sure that Jack Morrison still existed but what he did know was that this Soldier was different. Reaper had to understand the Soldier to understand the man and only then would he be able to finish the job as he saw fit. He would not settle for an empty victory.

Reaper lifted a hand to switch on his own com as he walked over to the wall lining the street and set the visor down on it.

“Sombra, I have a job for you.”

“ _Hello_ to you, too,” She said, her response coming through a little too quickly, as though she were waiting for him.

“A job? I thought anything to do with the old man was off limits.”  
“It is, unless I say so.”

“Well, that hardly seems fair.”

“Sombra.” Reaper sighed once more with enough frustration to put an end to Sombra’s teasing and tapped a clawed finger against the metal of Jack’s visor.

“All right, all right, I hear you. So, what kind of job is it?”

Reaper hesitated, tracing the outline of the visor thoughtfully.  
“Think of it as less of a ‘job’ and more of a...favor…off the record.”  
There was a moment of silence during which Reaper could feel his patience dwindling fast.

“Off the record, huh?” When Sombra spoke she did so slowly and deliberately to the extent that Reaper got the feeling he would regret ever asking. “Sounds interesting. I’m in.” There was the sound of shuffling and the whir of her equipment booting up. “So, what exactly do you need me to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> If you liked this and feel like supporting your friendly neighborhood Owl, I've got a tumblr with links to a bunch of my stuff here:   
> http://owlosaurusrex.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thanks again~


	2. Chapter 2

“Jack? Are you listening?” Angela’s irritated voice punctured the steady throb of Jack’s heart beat in his ears and the pulsating ache in his skull. She’d been poking and prodding at him for a couple hours now, running tests, performing scans and x-rays, and generally wasting his time.

“Eyes open, please,” she said and Jack grumbled as he pried open heavy lids to stare at the clouded and murky infirmary. One of his eyes opened easily, the other took more effort due to the swelling and ultimately Jack just let it be.

“You’ve already checked my eyes.”

“Well, I’m checking them again--look up for me.” Jack complied with a harsh sigh and managed not to flinch this time when Angela turned on her penlight. 

“Angela, I’m fine. You’ve done all of your tests, now let me leave.”

“Fine?” Angela scoffed and instructed him to follow the light with his eye as best he could. “You have a concussion, a cracked rib, a broken nose, the worst black eye I’ve ever seen--”

“Okay, okay, I know. But I’m  _ fine _ ,” Jack insisted and turned his face away. 

Angela sighed heavily, clicked her light off, and stood in front of him in silence. Jack could feel her gaze on him and shrugged it off as best he could, reaching out for his visor left on the small table beside the hospital bed. He was left groping for it, unable to really gauge  how far away it was, until Angela picked it up herself.

“Jack…” She held the visor in front of her and Jack squinted down at its lumpy gray form. He knew what she was going to ask, had heard the question too many times in the last couple hours and wasn’t keen on hearing it again.

“I’m telling you, I’m--”

“Yes, yes, you’re ‘fine,’ I heard you,” she snapped and paused to collect herself. “I just wish you would tell me what happened out there. This kind of damage doesn’t just  _ happen _ , Jack--and don’t give me that stupid ‘bar fight’ joke, it’s not funny.”

Jack sighed and lifted a hand to rub at his face but quickly thought better of it once his fingers brushed a tender bruise on his cheek. He didn’t answer.

“Lena found your gun, it was broken beyond repair,” she said, her voice lowering to a tone dangerously close to sympathy.

“Who did this?” 

Jack shook his head slowly. He didn’t want to have this conversation: not here, not now. He had to figure it all out for himself first.

“I don’t know,” Jack said after a brief hesitation, and it wasn’t entirely a lie. He hadn’t recognized the man he fought in Dorado. He’d seen him before, yes, even fought against him once or twice, but he didn’t  _ know _ him. Not anymore. Jack’s silence was heavy and telling to the extent that Angela didn’t ask again. She reached out and Jack could feel his visor being pressed into his hands.   
“You’ll have to write a report, you know? I look forward to reading it,” Angela said and Jack merely grunted in response. “I’m just glad we found you when we did. You could have died out there.”

“I know.”

“You need to be more careful.”

Jack ignored Angela’s lecturing in favor of sliding off of the hospital bed. The visor in his hands felt heavy and awkward and for a moment Jack hesitated to put it on. He stared at the bleary world around him with a nagging sense of shame before finally settling the mask on his face. It hurt his nose, pressed in all the wrong places, and his vision was a little fuzzier than usual, but it worked and seemed to have escaped the battle mostly unscathed. The same couldn’t be said for his jacket, however.

“Great.” Jack huffed as he picked the old leather up off the table and eyed various slashes near the neckline. They weren’t major but Jack had never enjoyed sewing.

“And Jack, one more thing,” Angela said from somewhere on Jack’s left but he didn’t bother looking at her, too busy gathering his holsters and other equipment.

“I noticed your pistol was left untouched.”

Jack froze, one arm already in his ravaged jacket, and closed his eyes tight, anticipating her next statement.   
“I also noticed,” she said slowly, her voice adopting a cool calmness. “that there is only one bullet, in the chamber.”

Jack took in a deep breath and turned to face her. He could see her clearly enough though the orange and red of the visor  gave her pale skin an eerie tone.

“I only need one.”

“Jack…”Angela’s professional facade cracked with a dawning sense of concern. “Have you been taking your--”

“Yes,” Jack said.

“If they aren’t working then we can raise the dosage,” she offered, obviously trying to regain her doctorly authority. Jack just shook his head and flinched as he finished shrugging on his jacket.

“I’m no therapist, but--”

“Good. I don’t want a therapist, Angela,” Jack snapped. “Some pills aren’t going to change anything, all right? I’ll take whatever you tell me to take but it won’t fix what happened. I don’t want a therapist, I just want people to mind their own goddamn business.” Jack’s voice rose and he wheezed slightly from a sharp pain in his side. He regretted his words as soon as he said them, his shoulders slumping as he curled an arm around his ribs. He hurt. He hurt in so many ways and it showed. 

Angela stared at him and Jack didn’t want to look at her face. He didn’t want to see what he had caused.

“I’m just worried about you,” Angela said, her voice quiet yet firm. She didn’t sound offended but Jack knew he’d crossed a line. He should apologize, could feel the perfect place for it nested in the long silence between them. But he didn’t.

“You’re free to go.”

Jack opened his eyes and stared at a distant point on the tiled floor as Angela stepped around him.

“I expect to see you here tomorrow for a check-up, and be sure to report any problems you might experience,” she said, her voice reverting back to a clipped, professional tone.

Jack hesitated before gathering his gear and heading for the doors. He could still fix this, there was still time to make things right; he owed Angela his life and she deserved better than his bitterness and stubborn pride. 

Jack paused as the doors slid open in front of him but he couldn’t find the right words to say.

All he could manage was a simple ‘thank you’ as he walked out of the infirmary without looking back. 

* * *

Jack’s room was dark and stagnant when he stepped inside. His journey back from the infirmary was a blur of bright, empty halls and the sound of his own footsteps.

He didn’t bother with the lights as the door slid shut behind him, the red glow of his visor illuminating the various articles of clothing  and empty bottles left on the floor at his feet. 

The room felt at once stifling yet comfortable in its familiarity. It was unorganized, cluttered, and smelled of alcohol and sweat from long nights of thinking too hard. 

Jack ignored the urgent need to clean, to drag himself out of the hole he was digging, and headed for the desk near the foot of his bed. He trailed his fingers over the top of his dresser as he passed it and kicked his chair aside so he could reach his lamp. 

It was small and dim but just bright enough to light the marred surface of his desk. There had been a time when he dreamt of seeing an empty desk--a time when paperwork and digital monitors consumed nearly every aspect of his life--but now, the bare space bordered by a few old, framed photos and a nearly empty bottle of  bourbon, felt wrong somehow.

Jack sat down slowly, tossing his jacket on the desk while his body protested the simple movement with sharp pains that left him breathless. Despite his battered state, Jack was still more alert than he usually was when he found himself sitting in the lamplight for hours at a time.

“So…” Jack sighed heavily, his voice a low crackle in the silence of his room. “What did you do to it?”

His room offered no reply, nor did his visor as he reached up to remove it from his face.

“I’m not sure what you did, but you did something. Did a poor job of hiding it, too; the sight’s all wrong.” Jack squinted and leaned over to to retrieve a pair of thick-lensed glasses and a small sewing kit from a desk drawer. 

The glasses were a little ‘old-school’ of him but he liked the freedom of simple steel frames in his down time. Seeing the world around him for what it was, without the guise of Soldier 76, was grounding.

“So what is it? Bugged? Are you tracking me? Or maybe you’re watching.” Jack paused with the glasses in his hand and stared at the bleary red glow of the visor for a long time.

“Is that it?” Jack asked without any real expectation of a response. 

The thought of his visor being tampered with should have alarmed him more than it did. Beyond simply using it as a tool to spy on him, Talon could have very easily made it a weapon and that thought alone brought to mind vivid memories of explosions and crumbling buildings, shattered glass and blood. He could have caused another collapse, another  _ incident _ , another tragedy.He had been careless, yet as quickly as panic bloomed in his chest, it withered under the realization that if they  _ had _ intended to weaponize his visor--or any of his gear for that matter--it seemed likely that they would have done so before Jack could retreat to the solitary confines of his room.

Jack let that sink in. He took a deep breath to calm himself and carefully settled his glasses on his bruised nose. Not a weapon, then. 

Jack took the visor back into his hands and looked it over with a keen eye. If Gabe intended to watch him, then he must have accessed its digital components. The mechanisms that allowed him to see were precise and fine tuned yet vulnerable, in the right hands. 

“Is this what you wanted to see?” Jack stared at the visor a long moment.

He looked like a mess and he knew it. Beyond just the physical result of their fight, Jack was unraveling in all kinds of ways--losing himself in one big tangled heap. He looked from the visor to his jacket and sighed.

Jack knew he should turn the mask off, destroy it probably, report the problem certainly, but the idea of having a presence with him--of having  _ Gabe _ with him again, was alluring despite his better judgement. He tried to remind himself that what he fought in Dorado wasn't Gabe, but there had to be some part of him left in there. 

Reaper had spared him, why? Just to spy on him? To revel in his quiet suffering? If all he wanted was to watch Jack struggle then he could go ahead and watch; waste his time. 

“Fine,” he said and set the visor off to the side. “Then you’ll have to watch me patch this up. I know how much you  _ loved _ watching me sew.” 

Jack huffed, allowing himself a brief moment of reminiscing.  Gabe would get so frustrated and impatient; would take whatever ripped shirt or loose button Jack was working on and fix it himself if only to get it over with. Gabe had always been good at that sort of thing.

Opening the sewing kit, Jack took his time in finding what he needed, his coarse hands oblivious to whatever pins and needles he encountered along the way. Threading the needle was a struggle, and when he finally gathered up his coat to get to work, it was with a sense of apprehension he didn’t fully understand. Maybe it was just the aftermath of what he had been through or perhaps it was the knowledge that mending the torn leather meant little in the grand scheme of things, but either way he persisted in a shaky, uneven rhythm. The glare of his visor stained his hands as he worked, dousing him in an inescapable red light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> If you liked this and feel like supporting your friendly neighborhood Owl, I've got a tumblr with links to a bunch of my stuff here:   
> http://owlosaurusrex.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thanks again~


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An exhausted Jesse McCree has been up all night after dragging Soldier: 76's unconscious body back to base and needs some time to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me ages to finish and not much is going on here but I wanted to introduce Jesse and Hanzo so here they are! This isn't beta read so bear with me~ I'm trying to stick to the mantra "fun but flawed" so I don't get caught up on trying to make it 'perfect'.  
> Sorry it took so long to update. I've been in a bad way for a long time now but I'm really hoping to keep things rolling as best I can.  
> The next chapter is from Reaper's pov so we'll get back to the old angsty boys!

The sunlight was bright and abrasive by the time Jesse was dismissed from his post-mission duties.

He took in a deep breath as the office doors slid closed behind him. The hallway he entered was awash in light slanting in from broad windows that looked out over the watch point and beyond, to the wide stretch of blue waters in the distance. It was a beautiful sight to be sure, yet bittersweet. He remembered running laps around these buildings at the crack of dawn on days when Reyes wanted to be sure his team was in tip-top shape. They were never stationed there for long but that didn’t stop them from leaving memories behind--baked into the steel and concrete structures and sun-bleached with time.

The warmth of the sunlight sapped whatever energy Jesse had left as he shuffled along the hall. It was nearly noon in Gibraltar and he hadn't slept since he dragged the old man out of Dorado the night before. Evac had been a long and messy affair, and the infirmary visit wasn't much easier, but after an hour or two of lifting dead weight and reporting to Ana, he was finally let loose.

He’d given oral reports and testimonies before (it was a little difficult to avoid in his Blackwatch days) but having to look Ana in the eye and tell her he had no idea what had happened was far more difficult than it should've been. It was one thing to describe a fight or mission-gone-wrong, but describing what Jesse had seen in Dorado was something else altogether.

Jesse rolled his shoulders as he unclasped his breastplate. The armor felt heavier than usual, dragging him down two flights of stairs with his slow, resounding steps that clinked and jangled. He should head back to his room or maybe swing by the cafeteria to see if lunch was ready, but instead he found himself taking a detour through quiet, mostly untouched hallways. There were plenty of rooms and even whole wings of the watch point, left abandoned in quiet disrepair and while Jesse had no intention or desire to go digging around in dusty memories, he did make one exception. Not far from the main offices and dormitories, down a wide hall to an adjoining sector, was a nondescript door nestled between two dirty windows.

It took a little force to push the old door open and its hinges screeched with the intrusion, but it was well worth the effort to step out of the watch point and into the mid-day sunshine.

Jesse remembered when he’d first seen the courtyard Ana had deemed a safe haven for those who needed an escape from their decidedly difficult jobs. He’d once found the bright flowers and shrubbery soothing in ways that he couldn’t quite comprehend and even now, with the gardens overgrown and weeds crowding the stone-slab walkways, it offered a sense of peace he couldn’t find elsewhere. He welcomed the tangled vines and leafy branches that tried to tug at his pant legs as he brushed by, and let the smell of warm earth, the distant sea, and everything green envelope him. It was surprisingly easy to let everything go, checked at the door and forgotten for a few minutes as he wandered deeper towards the short trees nestled in the courtyard’s center.

He dug in his pockets as he walked, finding his lighter and what was left of his last cigarillo before he stopped in the central clearing of the courtyard. It featured two trees separated by paving stones and each with a lonely bench at its base. There were other benches scattered here and there but most had disappeared over the years, consumed by the garden plants.

Everything was warm and quiet, the breezes made gentle by the surrounding building, and still to the extent that Jesse didn't realize he wasn't alone until he was nearly face-to-face with Hanzo sitting in a shaded patch of grass.

He sat stock-still, his attention claimed by a small tablet in his hands, and when he didn't look up or make any move to acknowledge him, Jesse decided to return the favor. He lit up with a deep sigh and tipped his hat back so the sun might touch his face.

Though the first couple of times they’d stumbled upon each other  among the plants and trees had been a little tense, Hanzo’s presence was no longer surprising nor altogether unwelcome. His strict posture and severe countenance often made him seem like a statue--a part of the scenery, rather than a guest in the gardens. Yet, the way that the sunlight dripped through the leaves and dappled Hanzo's face lessened the sharpness of his features and the shadows beneath his eyes. Sometimes, on good days, if the light was just right, he looked less like a haunted man and more like a man at peace. But more often than not, it seemed that relief was just out of reach for him.

More than once, Jesse had seen the old Genji in his brother’s face and in his actions. Genji and, perhaps, even a little of himself.

In the end, Jesse didn’t blame him for wanting a retreat--the man hadn't exactly been a favorite among the group, given his history--and Hanzo tolerated his presence so they’d come to a silent understanding. At least that’s how Jesse saw it, anyway.

“You’re back sooner than expected.”

Jesse blinked his eyes open at the sound of Hanzo’s voice and squinted at him through the sunlight.

“Huh?”

“Your team was not expected until tomorrow.” Hanzo’s voice, though casual, was as crisp and direct as ever. He spoke with certainty and an authority that might have bothered Jesse if he chose to care.

“Oh, well…I s’pose you’re right,” Jesse said, his voice thick and drowsy even to his own ears. He cleared his throat. “Didn’t realize you were keepin track.”

Jesse took another drag and eyed Hanzo closely, but Hanzo seemed uninterested and only hummed in acknowledgement. Neither of them spoke for several long moments as Jesse settled back into his drowsy, contemplative state, ready to just let the odd conversation drop without another word, though Hanzo seemed to have something else in mind.

“It was an escort mission, was it not?”

Jesse paused with his cigarillo halfway to his lips and stared at Hanzo in mild surprise. The man hadn't looked up from his tablet once since Jesse had arrived and yet he was talking more than usual.  

“Uh, yeah, somethin like that. Just keepin an eye on some sciency type,” Jesse said and shrugged. “Seems he was some big time researcher. In the medical field.”

Hanzo hummed again.

“And, I take it things did not go smoothly.”

“Why do ya say that?”

Hanzo looked up from his tablet, dark eyes keen yet unimpressed as they gave Jesse a quick once-over. “You do not  _ look _ as though you succeeded.”

Jesse followed his gaze and nearly cringed as he got a look at himself. Blood stained his serape in dark patches that doubtless soaked through to his shirt beneath, and his chest plate was spotted with the stuff. He’d certainly looked worse--plenty worse--before but he couldn’t deny that it might give off the wrong impression. He hadn’t exactly been paying attention to his appearance, what with all of his running around and reporting, but now that he was out in the sunlight and had a moment to get his bearings, he realized he really should have stopped in his room to change.

“Oh,” Jesse said, dumbly and tugged his serape loose so he could get a better look at the damage. “Well, this had nothing to do with the mission. Just some...unexpected complications, I guess.” Jesse glanced up as he spoke but Hanzo had already returned his attention to his tablet. He hummed yet again in response as if he was hardly listening but Jesse knew better.

He watched as Hanzo settled back into his statuesque calm, staring at his tablet without another word. It was strange enough for Hanzo to address him directly while in the gardens but stranger still for him to show any interest at all in missions that he wasn’t directly involved in. It always seemed to Jesse like he was trying his damnedest not to care about anything or anyone outside of his own personal agenda, and the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if maybe this was Hanzo’s way of checking in on his brother. Genji was part of the Dorado team, after all.

It was an interesting thought and Jesse let it roll over in his mind as he closed his eyes and focused on finishing his cigarillo. The quiet returned and Jesse realized that times like these, when they shared the same space without any expectations or preconceptions, made Hanzo seem more human. Having thought of him only as Genji's attacker--his  _ murderer _ \--for so long, it was difficult to see the man behind the actions. But wasn’t that what they all were? People first and soldiers, agents, vigilantes, whatever else second? Maybe Hanzo was worried about his brother, or at least curious about what had happened. Maybe he was looking for a new means of redemption, but either way, it wasn’t really any of Jesse’s business. Either way, they were both just men looking for some peace.

Jesse realized he’d closed his eyes again at some point as he finished his smoke with one final exhale. He let the butt of his cigarillo smolder away to nothing between his fingers and simply stood in the sunshine. He probably could have dozed off like that if he were younger--if he hadn’t been on the run for years, hunted for an ever-growing bounty--but as things were he welcomed a hazy state of half consciousness. He was aware of the distant sounds of birds and insects, of the slight shudder of a breeze tickling the garden plants, and of movement.

Jesse peeked an eye open to watch curiously as Hanzo rose to his feet with an ease he envied. He moved with the same silent grace that Genji possessed, if not a bit stiffer than his younger brother. Jesse caught a glimpse of a momentary grimace, there and gone again, that had him wondering if maybe he wasn’t the only one feeling his age.

Hanzo said nothing and didn’t even glance in Jesse’s direction as he collected himself and headed towards the doorway, his movements as silent as ever despite the reaching plants brushing at his legs.

“Hey.”

Hanzo stopped abruptly at the sound of Jesse’s weary voice. He looked tense with an anticipation Jesse didn’t understand and only tilted his head in a half-hearted effort at showing he was listening.

“Thanks for the company,” Jesse said. “I ‘preciate it.”

Hanzo stood there for a moment before turning just enough to look back at him. His gaze was sharp and suspicious, as if searching for a joke or hidden barb where there was none to be found. Jesse couldn’t help but feel uneasy but managed a tired smile nonetheless.

Ultimately Hanzo’s initial hostility waned to a mild confusion and he huffed in response before turning back to the door and heading inside.

Jesse watched him go with a small snort of amusement. He knew full well that he’d intruded on Hanzo’s alone-time and that could hardly be considered keeping him company but he’d take what he could get. As much as he’d come to appreciate his solitude over the years, coming back to the base, meeting old teammates, and revisiting all of the memories there, was really taking a toll on him. It was a lot to handle and sometimes being alone could make it all the more difficult.

Jesse sighed heavily as he glanced around the garden with eyes that ached for sleep. If he stayed out there any longer he was liable to pass out under the trees, and as nice as that sounded in theory, he was certain he’d pay for it later.

“Guess that’s that, then,” he said, his voice quickly absorbed by the surrounding plants. It really was overgrown. Someone should tend to it, if they had the time.

He turned on his heel, footsteps slow and heavy as he plodded back through the garden and found the door left cracked open, as if it were expecting him. The cool shade welcomed him inside like an old friend, offering a silent reminder that no matter how long he stayed among the plants or how far he wandered, he’d get pulled back in eventually. Whether it be in Gibraltar or Sweden or wherever else--he’d always come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
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> Thanks again~


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